scabbed wound
Mycroft's words, "You are clearly not qualified," were like a cold wave, completely washing away the last remaining trace of warmth in Rose's heart.
She opened her mouth, but only a dry, gasping sound came from her throat. All her questions, accusations, and even her humble attempts to verify were frozen on the tip of her tongue.
The study was filled with the scents of parchment, ink, and his aloof, unapproachable aura. She watched as he sat back down, engrossed in reviewing documents—those broad, straight arms, which she had sketched countless times during her secret observations, now seemed like a cold, hard cliff, proclaiming an insurmountable chasm.
She didn't speak, nor could she speak anymore, and turned to leave.
The door closed behind her, isolating her from that suffocating space, and seemingly severing her connection with everything from the past.
Each recollection brings a deeper, colder pain. She once thought that the white knuckles in the garden, the sound of candy wrappers late at night, the barely perceptible pauses when facing Sherlock's piano playing... were the undercurrents surging beneath the ice, allowing her to glimpse a glimmer of humanity.
How ridiculous, how self-righteous!
It was nothing more than an occasional static interference during the operation of a precision machine, a harmless redundant action after rational calculation, and a misinterpretation by her as an observer.
Her probing, her courageous questions, were nothing more than another example of "inefficient communication" in his eyes, a "personality appendix" that needed optimization. All he ever asked her to do was "play the role of Sherlock's sister to maintain necessary stability."
She wandered aimlessly through the empty, ornate corridors, her footsteps echoing in the silence. The portraits of the past heads of the Sherlock Holmes family hanging on the walls, those unfamiliar faces—some with stern or indifferent gazes—seemed to be silently judging her, the intruder.
She didn't belong here, she never did. She was merely a carefully chosen prop, used to fill a void. The lady needed her to maintain appearances, Mycroft needed her to comfort Sherlock, and Sherlock needed her to express his longing for his sister. No one needed Rose herself.
A huge, unventable grief and indignation welled up inside her. She hated the lady, hated that she had dragged her into this twisted fate; she hated Mycroft, hated his coldness, his rationality, his nonchalant arrogance; she even hated Eurus, hated that she possessed that destructive genius, hated that she saw through her and then cruelly exposed her, hated that she had played a cruel joke on her with hope.
She hated herself most of all. She hated her own cowardice, her inability to break free, and that she had actually harbored a pathetic fantasy about that abyss-like man.
She stared at her blurry reflection in the glass, attire-clad, heartbroken "Miss Holmes." Her fingertips traced the cold glass, as if touching the reflection, or perhaps erasing it forever.
She suddenly remembered that her aloof older brother always seemed to look down on everyone. His once radiant care had turned into nothing more than a fleeting glance.
Finally leaving the corridor, the cool breeze brushed against her cheeks, a stark contrast to the sweltering heat she had just felt. Only then did she realize that tears were streaming down her face.
Mycroft Holmes, the ice man.
He is not the warm water flowing beneath the iceberg.
He is the iceberg itself.
She considered exposing everything, even if it inevitably led to ultimate destruction, it would still be one way to end everything.
Yes, she had thought about it. She would storm into Sherlock's room, tear down the pillar that held his crumbling mental sanctuary, and tell him the truth: his beloved sister was imprisoned in the tower he most wanted to escape; the family ties he cherished were nothing but a fake; it was a colossal lie maintained by his mother and brother!
Let him see the disgusting truth about the Holmes family, let everything collapse completely in hysteria, let Mycroft's most beloved younger brother become his eternal pain, and let his carefully maintained "necessary stability" turn to dust!
This may be the only, final, and most intense revenge she can give to this cold manor.
But...Sherlock? Oh my god!
The only innocent one, Sherlock, who was already in despair and on the verge of collapse.
The lady's suicide was undoubtedly the most vicious revenge against Sherlock. His provocation at her coming-of-age ceremony destroyed the reputation she cherished, and she chose to do so in a way that would make him remember her with hatred for the rest of his life and torment him with guilt for the rest of his life.
Since receiving news of her death, Sherlock's already fragile mental state has become even more precarious.
On sleepless nights, he would sometimes stay in the garden, sometimes in his bedroom, and sometimes even in the banquet hall.
But no matter where he was, he would crouch in a corner, curled up in a ball, trembling and crying like a cub. When Rose approached him, she would always hear him muttering, "I hate my mother," "I drove my mother to her death," "I am ashamed of my mother."
—And, “I hate myself.”
Having been tormented for years, he was no longer the person he was as a child: smiling brightly, kind to all things, and never on guard. He had become sometimes cautious, sometimes irritable and manic, sometimes aggrieved and sensitive. He was always cold and unsympathetic, often spouting conclusions—conjectures devoid of emotional intelligence—exposing others' shortcomings without a shred of mercy. As a result, the servants were no longer inclined to approach him.
He reserved all his tenderness for Rose, even though it stemmed from his dependence on and attachment to family, and even though she was a liar.
But she still couldn't bring herself to hurt Sherlock.
The curly-haired boy who hugged her when they first met, the brother who promised to protect her under the starry sky, Sherlock who offered her heartbroken comfort in the darkness of the carriage—he was an innocent victim in this twisted drama, just like her, and perhaps even more deeply wounded.
If this pillar is removed before he finds a new emotional anchor, it would be tantamount to pushing him off a cliff. He would completely crumble and shatter.
A new emotional outlet?
But who can mend such a broken heart... such a tormented soul?
This unsolvable knot weighed heavily on Rose's heart. She couldn't expose it, couldn't retaliate, couldn't simply walk away, and didn't even have a reason to make a scene. The manor still stood on the overcast land, casting a heavy shadow.
Like Rose, Sherlock was not allowed to leave London. Unlike Rose, because he had no ulterior motives, he could openly confront Mycroft instead of giving him the cold shoulder.
Therefore, harassing Mycroft at his office became a regular occurrence for him. His demands were always the same: he wanted to find a job and move out of the mansion. Despite repeated setbacks, he never gave up.
The rest of the time, he would take Rose to various opera houses and pubs in London to pass the time. Unlike his wife's oppressive and closed-off confinement, Mycroft did not restrict their freedom during the day, only stipulating that they should be back by midnight. Although servants secretly monitored them when they went out, they would never appear in sight.
He was probably too busy with the affairs of the Imperial Government, so he spent fewer and fewer nights at home, and seemed less willing to see them, even canceling family traditions such as dining together.
Sometimes when Rose returned from outside, she would get off the carriage and look up to see the "heart" light on. This habitual glance made her feel contempt for herself: why did she subconsciously still care about someone who didn't care about her?
The two were completely drunk, sprawled out in any corner. Dreamlike lyrics echoed in their ears; sometimes, reaching out, they couldn't distinguish between dreams and reality.
Perhaps the daily tug-of-war finally paid off, or perhaps Mycroft could no longer tolerate their listless state. He finally relented and allowed Sherlock to find something to do in London.
“How about painting? Or violinist?” Mycroft offered Sherlock career advice.
“A doctor?” Rose suggested.
Mycroft chuckled and grabbed Sherlock's left hand. As the sleeve rolled up, Rose saw morphine injection marks that were even more shocking than they had been months before.
“A doctor? Who would trust a doctor like that?” he scoffed dismissively, but then, noticing Sherlock’s annoyed expression out of the corner of his eye, he softened his tone: “But a forensic pathologist would be fine. After all, you deal with the dead.”
Dealing with the dead?
…dealing with the dead.
Dealing with the dead!
The moment those words landed, a glimmer of light suddenly appeared in Sherlock's usually quiet eyes. He looked at Mycroft urgently and spoke rapidly: "You're right, I should find a profession that deals with the dead."
Although Rose was completely bewildered, Mycroft had clearly deduced the profession Rose desired. He frowned. "Piecing together the truth isn't child's play, at least not a game. You should..."
“Mycroft!” Realizing he had lost his temper, Sherlock’s voice lowered, but his teeth were even more clenched: “Just how wretched am I in your eyes?”
Mycroft remained silent. After a while, he finally spoke.
"Since you're determined to be a detective who exonerates the dead, what more can I say? But be careful that the darkness lurking beneath those cases doesn't taint your 'purity.' Go find someone to share an apartment with, Sherlock. Alright, are you satisfied now? You can leave now."
Rose and Sherlock left the "heart". After descending the spiral staircase, they could smell fresh air as soon as they opened the door, and their eyes were met with lush, green grass.
Looking up, the storm had long since passed. Although the sky was overcast, the earth was lush and green, brimming with vibrant life.
In the damp, fresh scent of earth, Sherlock once again lifted his foot and skimmed across the shallow puddle. This step came exactly six years after his last one.
Not long after his wife's death, Rose read in the newspaper that the psychologist who had hypnotized Sherlock had been found dead in his home. His death was gruesome; half his body had been burned to ashes by the fireplace. When she excitedly shared this news with Sherlock, he merely smiled faintly before reverting to his weary and exhausted expression.
And only now, perhaps, has his inner demon begun to leave.
Or perhaps, even if it's suppressed deep in one's heart and temporarily unseen.
However, Rose still couldn't understand why Mycroft insisted that she move in with him.
He was consistently incredibly generous with his allowance, almost to an astonishing degree. Not to mention the regular, large monthly remittances, he even allowed Rose and Sherlock to withdraw from his private coffers at will.
Logically speaking, buying a top-tier mansion would be an extremely simple matter, let alone just an apartment in London. Yet he insisted that Sherlock rent a house, even share it with someone.
Sherlock seemed to understand his intentions. He appeared somewhat dismissive of Mycroft's idea. However, something was hidden beneath this facade of disdain.
She didn't understand what it was exactly, but his disdain was by no means malicious contempt, but rather a whitewash of his self-esteem.
“That guy wants me to meet all sorts of people, normal people. But you know, I’ve never had any hope for close relationships.” Sherlock paused, rubbing his tired eyes. “He thinks he’s doing this for my own good, but he’s just creating more trouble. Believe it or not, he probably carefully selected the location and the landlord. No, haha, even the neighbors.”
As he spoke, he gestured with his fingers to indicate a few centimeters: "All that's left for me is a tiny bit of choice within the small space he's confined to."
"But I beat him this time. Mycroft is so arrogant that he thinks someone like me can't have any friends. Too bad, I already had my choice of roommate."
Snow began to fall in his mental palace. That Christmas when he was allowed to leave home, that snowy night in London, that army doctor in the cheap café, those precious fragments of the past, that dazzling moment like lightning.
The man was not tall, and he was wearing a worn military-style overcoat, which was not buttoned up properly, revealing a faded shirt underneath.
But his expression was compassionate and gentle, and despite the noisy setting, he exuded a comforting tranquility.
The long-lost peace and tranquility.
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